“Rather!” laughed Keefe. “If all electioneering were as innocent as that, the word would carry no unpleasant meaning.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“Of course I will—if I get opportunity.”
“Oh, you’ll have that. It’s a big, rambling country house—a delightful one, too—and there’s tea in the hall, and tennis on the lawn, and moonlight on the verandas——”
“Hold up, Sam,” Keefe warned him, “is the girl pretty?”
“Haven’t seen her for years, but probably, yes. But that’s nothing to you. You’re working for me, you see.” Appleby’s glance was direct, and Keefe understood.
“Of course; I was only joking. I’ll carry out your commission, if, as I said, I get the chance. Tell me something of Mr. Wheeler.”
“Oh, he’s a good old chap. Pathetic, rather. You see, he bumped up against dad once, and got the worst of it.”
“How?”
Sam Appleby hesitated a moment and then said: “I see you don’t know the story. But it’s no secret, and you may as well be told. You listen, too, Miss Lane, but there’s no call to tattle.”